


After the assault

by SpaderTre



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaderTre/pseuds/SpaderTre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The standards might be zero, Stinetorf thought, but we provided the bullets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the assault

**Author's Note:**

> The aftermath of the airfield assault in episode 3 in Stinetorf's point of view. Completely un-beta.

There were both upsides and downsides to assault an Iraqi airfield with open top Humvees. Good stuff included adrenaline rush and more sleep afterwards. Bad sides were of course that the mechanized division would have slaughtered the entire company if they’d been there; loss of battalion colors since the stressed Sergeant Major forced H&S POGs to leave a supply truck somewhere in the middle of the night; and shortage of food for the same reason. You also had to stand Doc’s temper. That’s not entirely new, as everyone else in Bravo Two-Three Stinetorf was used to it, but it didn’t really get any better after the Iraqi women came up with that kid.

Rolling Stone saw them first. Stinetorf was a little ashamed that he couldn’t remember the man’s real name, since he seemed all nice and stuff, but if he’d heard it’d gone straight out the window by now.  
“Think they want something?” Reporter said with that soft Ohio accent.  
Chaffin, of course, had some smirk comment and Jacks laughed. Doc ignored them all and approached the women without a backward glance.  
“Stiney, give me a hand,” he called.  
There was a kid on the litter. Stinetorf saw the blood first and then the body. Kid looked young; it was hard to say how young, but maybe ten or twelve. Eyes closed as the woman who probably was his mother wailed in Arabic.  
Stinetorf knew that people had died around him before. He’d shot a few of them down with his .50 cal too. But to see that kid with all that blood was something different. Closer and more personal.  
Doc hadn’t wasted any time just looking at a bleeding out child. He’d grabbed a pair of scissors and opened up the boy’s shirt, talking steadily with the kid and his mother. The woman was nice-looking, even though she cried. She wore long black skirts and strings of hair fell forward from the veil. She was a real Arabic woman and they hadn’t seen many of them up close before. Her sorrow and grief was real too. The older woman could have been her mother, greyish but calmer. Stinetorf realized he wasn’t trying to evaluate them as possible enemies and therefore probably should do something else. Doc scowled.  
“Kid’s been zipped with 556. Marine shot this kid.”  
Stinetorf felt his heart drop. There was no different about this kid. They’d run through cities, seen buildings and alleys go up in smoke and bodies fall. Stinetorf had shot several people with his .50 cal. This kid could have been any of them.  
“Fucking jackasses.” Doc was still cursing. “Trigger-happy motherfuckers.”  
“Doc, is there anything I can do?” Stinetorf asked.  
Doc actually looked up. “Yeah, Stiney. Get me the battalion surgeon. We need to casevac this kid or he’s dead.”  
Stinetorf nodded and ran. More people had gathered around and some Iraqi men had carried up another kid. He almost ran into Q-tip and Christeson.  
“Two stretches to Doc, twelve o’clock.” He didn’t stop to see if they responded.

By the cammie net outside the Head Quarter victors he was stopped by Sixta.  
“Hold it there, devil dog!”  
“Sergeant Major, we need the battalion surgeon.”  
“For what?”  
“Some Iraqis have brought up two wounded kids. Doc Bryan sent me for the battalion surgeon. One kid needs to be casevaced.”  
A couple of officers came closer, one of them Godfather.  
“Corporal,” Sixta started and Stinetorf stood straighter. “We are on enemy ground, not in …”  
“They were shot by marines.”   
It was probably not the smartest move to interrupt the highest ranking enlisted man in the battalion, but not even First Battalion Command could take that piece of news without any reaction. It got quiet until Godfather used his battered voice.  
“We can’t casevac this kid.”  
“But, sir …” Stinetorf started before realizing that he probably had filled his daily (or yearly) quota of speaking up to superiors.  
He was saved by Lieutenant Fick, who came running.  
“Corporal Stinetorf, what’s happening here?”  
“Doc needs the battalion surgeon.”  
Apparently, someone had called for him or he just had good ears, because he came out of his tent.  
“Where?” he asked, and Stinetorf showed the way.

When they got back Doc fired off med lingo to the surgeon.  
“Godfather’s denied the request to casevac the boy,” LT said.  
“Well,” Doc said, “we need to casevac him or he’s dead.”  
The battalion surgeon went away for a new request, more Marines gathered and the mother kept talking, looking directly at Colbert.  
Doc had also seen him arrive.  
“Shot by that asshole Trombley, Brad. He’s been zipped by 556 from Trombley’s SAW.”  
Colbert looked stern. “Don’t put this on Trombley, I’m responsible.”  
“Yeah?” Doc had got that annoyed face on, signaling miles off that he wasn’t gonna let this go. “Well, twenty other Marines rolled by them and didn’t shoot. So why don’t we bring Trombley here and see what he’s done?”  
“Don’t say that,” Colbert said, sounding less stern and more vulnerable than imaginable. “It was my order. What can I do here?”  
Doc looked away. “Not a fucking thing apparently, Brad.”  
Seconds ticked by and the boy by Docs knees looked paler, and the women were quieter now. Stinetorf stood by Christeson and everyone was still. Nothing more to do, only hope that Godfather would change his mind.  
When the surgeon came back he just shook his head. LT was eyeing Colbert and Colbert was staring into the distance.  
“There’s got to be something we can do.” LT sounded a little desperate.  
“Under the rules we have to provide him with care until he dies,” the surgeon said.  
Stinetorf didn’t need to look at Doc to know he didn’t believe in rules anymore. He’d tried to fight it with the surrendering Iraqis many days ago, but orders came to break the rule. Now he just said “Yeah, well so?”  
“Put him in my care,” the surgeon proposed. “I’m billeted next to the battalion commander. If he’s my care and Godfather has to watch him die, he might change his order.”  
It was obvious for the E-3s and E-4s such as Stinetorf that the looks between LT, the surgeon, Doc, and Colbert were something more than the usual ‘how to proceed in this cluster fuck’.  
“Right, let’s do this,” Doc started and put the stretcher next to the boy.  
“It’s the only chance we’ve got,” LT said – maybe mostly to himself.  
Doc ordered the lift and the mother started crying again. Stinetorf carried the back of the stretcher. It weighed almost nothing – it was almost as if it was empty. Rattled breaths could be heard, but the boy hadn’t screamed or whimpered at all. 

No one spoke as they carried the stretcher through camp. Colbert led the way right up to Godfather’s cammie net. Sixta came out and started yelling:  
“What the hell is going on here?!”  
Stinetorf couldn’t see Doc’s face, but you didn’t need much imagination to guess how he looked saying:  
“We brought him here to die.”  
Doc, Colbert, LT and the surgeon had formed a line facing Godfather’s Humvee.  
“Get him the fuck out of here,” Sixta ordered.  
It was probably the fact that it was an order that made the LT hint to Stafford. Christeson was still carrying the drop bag and Stinetorf nodded to him:  
“Set him down over there.”  
They carried him just a few meters. The women were still there, and Stinetorf kneeled next to the boy’s head. He was twisting now, and silently moaning.  
Even with his back towards the cammie net, Stinetorf had no trouble hearing what was said. Godfather had come out.  
“What the fuck is going on?” he asked Sixta.  
“Sir, Bravo Two is in rebellion because they think they shot an Iraqi child.”  
 _Think?_ Stinetorf frowned. _We know._ He kept his focus and helped the old woman hold on to the boy.  
“Does he want water? Keep him still.”  
Rolling Stone hadn’t missed this and came over with a bottle of water. The mother took it and heartbreakingly softly wetted the boy’s lips, whispering or maybe weakly singing.  
Godfather was arguing with the four Marines still there. “You're requesting that I send this wounded civilian to the RCT for aid. Problem. Our tactical situation is extremely precarious here. These are the northernmost Marines’ positions and we are thirty klicks north of that. We are far behind enemy lines.”  
Stinetorf kept his eyes on the child. His forehead was damp and he didn’t drink. Four bullet wounds in the abdomen. That sort of things killed, and killed slowly. It’d probably take hours, maybe all night. He wanted to get away from this, from this boy’s ultimate death. The other one was better off, hit in a better place and not as much. Stinetorf wanted to ask the woman what the boy was named and how old he was, but he couldn’t. Partly because it didn’t feel right to interrupt in the mother-son moment, partly because of the language barrier, but mostly because whatever was going on behind him wouldn’t be helped by more sounds from here.  
Godfather was still talking: “What can be done? Option one, casevac by helicopter, doesn't exist. Army, Marines are engaged, taking casualties. Last night, the Iraqis stopped the Army advance. They turned back thirty-six Apache helicopters, shot a few down. Option two, I detach a platoon and have them drive thirty klicks through enemy lines to the shock-trauma unit here. If any of you were a casualty right now, I don't think I could casevac you.”  
Q-tip nudged Christeson and Stinefort had a feeling his face matched theirs. But damn it, he would keep sitting here, next to this boy until either of them was forced away.  
“I imagine there's some of you think we have to give wounded civilians every consideration we would give ourselves. That is not true. The ROE say we have to give them the same medical care they would get by local standards. The standards here are fucking zero. It's a shitty situation for us, but nobody put a gun to our heads and forced us to come here. We're all volunteers.”  
 _The standards might be zero,_ Stinetorf thought, _but we provided the bullets._  
   
Suddenly, Godfather had changed his mind and everything happened fast. The surgeon came by, Meesh was called up to tell the Iraqis what was going to happen, and some guys from Alpha loaded the boy on a Humvee. Doc went with them.  
That should have been enough for everything to go back to normal, but it stuck. The next day Doc came back still pissed, LT looked sad, and Colbert hid under his Humvee for hours. The mood was not changing. It didn’t help that Encino Man chose to make rounds right now.  
Team Three was left without their team leader when the captain approached. Stinetorf had been trying to read Chapter 14 of his book all morning without getting past the first page. Baptista taught Holsey the correct pronunciation of Claymore mine in Portuguese. Doc rearranged his medbag, his spirits not an inch higher than yesterday. Stinetorf sat on the Humvee and spotted the incomings first.  
All but Doc was on their feet when the captain and his gunny came in.  
“How’s the sitrep here?”  
Everyone looked blank but finally Holsey answered. Encino Man looked like a ridiculous child when he continued:  
“Been through a lot these past few days. I know there's a lot of strong feelings. I want you to think of me as the kind of commander who's not only tough and aggressive, but who also cares. I want to hear exactly what your concerns are. What I mean is that I want you to talk freely. Forget my bars for a moment.”  
No one spoke up. Things weren’t going according to Schwetje’s plan, and he chose Holsey.  
“Corporal Holsey, is there anything on your mind?”  
Stinetorf wondered if Encino Man knew the name of every marine in his company, or if he just knew Holsey’s because he was the only Afro-American in the company.  
“Sir, is it true that we lost our battalion colors in the supply truck that Godfather ordered abandoned?”  
 _Good choice of question._ Stinetorf hoped he wouldn’t be singled out next. The only question on his mind was if Encino Man had any idea what they were doing and why. The not-so-secret opinion in the platoon was that the answer to both questions was a firm no.  
Schwetje kept babbling and then turned to Baptista, trying and failing to read the eight-letter-word on his t-shirt.  
“Baptist, how are you doing?”  
Baptista smiled and let off a rant of Portuguese mixed words that Encino Man completely missed the point of. Doc was next up.  
“Doc, how about you?”  
He didn’t even look up, eyes still in his bag. “I’m all squared away, sir.”  
Not even Encino Man could miss that obvious lie. Better men though might have left it with that.  
“Doc, look, we all know how much the men look up to you. I’d like to know what you’re thinking.”  
“I don’t think so.”  
Stinetorf tried to find something to say that wasn’t insulting if he got the question, but came up blank. Schwetje was stubborn enough not to leave Doc be, though.  
“This is your chance to get a little something off your chest.”  
Doc finally looked up. “Are you asking me to speak frankly?”  
“Yes.” Schwetje smiled as if there was a joke somewhere and looked at Casey Kasem. “Well.”  
“Well, sir, it’s just that you’re incompetent, sir.”  
The rest of team Three stood absolutely still. In the silence Q-tip’s voice rang with a _Big Lebowski_ quote.  
“I’m doing the best I can,” Schwetje finally said.  
“Sir, it’s not good enough.”  
If Encino Man had been a better man he could have done something else than walk away, but he wasn’t. Baptista didn’t even care to wait for them to get out of earshot.  
“Bom, Doc Bryan! Bom!”  
Stinetorf smiled. It felt like a victory:  
“Muy bom!”  
Doc still frowned. “Fucking Portuguese lessons.”


End file.
